It All Began in Monte Carlo (36 page)

Mac bought a hot dog and ate it as he walked; it was spicy, hot and crunched as he bit into it. He thought somebody in the United States could make a fortune importing them, but then somebody could always make a fortune somewhere. Except the little gray waif, Valentina Vinskaya.

She had made enough to buy a few clothes, buy a boyfriend,
buy dinner in a smart restaurant. The yellow diamond ring had not made a fortune for her, but it might have made a good extra profit for Sharon Barnes, had she not been careless and left it in her coat pocket.

He was sure it was Sharon. Trouble was, he had no evidence. Unless he could persuade the little gray waif to tell the truth about who she had stolen the fur from and who she had sold the diamond ring to.

He wrapped his black coat around himself as he walked. He'd bought it in Charles de Gaulle airport, long, black, high-collared, not your average businessman's overcoat; but then Mac was not your usual businessman. Hugo Boss, and way too expensive, but it was that or freeze. It was cold in Prague. The coat swirled around his legs in the wind as he stepped into the lee of a vendor's kiosk and dialed Valeria's number. There was no reply. He left a message, saying simply, “Call me,” but he was wary about leaving his name, just in case. He was worried, but it was New Year's, and he told himself Valeria probably had a job dancing in some club. Earning her living, one way or another.

Alone, in the middle of all the busy New Year's excitement on the Charles Bridge, Mac stared into the starless sky and thought about Sunny. He had to get in touch with her; he had to know where she was this New Year's Eve, what she was doing; that she was safe. He tried her number, got the same from-outer-space ring. He considered calling Allie but she had her own troubles, with the broken legs.

Then he remembered. Pru Hilson was coming. She would be here at eight. She would
have
to tell him where Sunny was.

Back at the hotel, Mac called the Inspector and brought him up to date on the gypsy, the ring, the card in the pocket of the fur coat and his visit with Sharon Barnes.

“I know she's involved somehow,” he said. “What I don't know is whether she was one of the robbers.”

He described her and the Inspector said he would have her checked. He would also check on Maha Mondragon, who was well known for her expensive jewels. “Not in La Fontaine's league,” he said. “No diamonds.”

“No diamonds,” Mac agreed. “The gypsy fenced the yellow diamond ring. Probably got a couple of thousand euros. She didn't have the high-level contacts and anyway would have been too scared. This was high-class stuff, way out of her league, but she needed the money.” Remembering her bleak pink apartment he added, “I can't blame her.”

“A thief is a thief,” the Inspector reminded him coldly.

Mac described the two men in the elevator and the Inspector said he would look into them.

“This all is involved with Maha Mondragon,” Mac said. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“Unfortunately, your bones are not enough,” the Inspector said. “Proof,
mon vieux,
is what we need.”

Yvonne Elman's dead face swam into Mac's mind. “Trust me, I'll find it,” he said.

 

He checked the arrival of the flight from Frankfurt. It was on time and he sat in the hotel lobby, nursing a vodka and soda, remembering the tiny glass of Slivovitz he had not drunk that morning at the gypsy's, and waiting for Pru Hilson.

New Year's Eve was swirling all around him: the hotel throbbed with music and partygoers in black tie and backless satin dresses; lovely blond Prague women and their beak-nosed dark men, exotic, like something from a thirties movie. Perfume hung in the air and there was the sound of popping champagne corks. Mac had never felt so unfestive in his entire life. Except for Christmas of course. And now it was New Year's. Why didn't Pru get here? He would
force
her to tell him where Sunny was.

He heard a sharp high bark and looked up, startled, expecting to see Sunny. But it was Pru Hilson with the Chihuahua.

“I'm dog-sitting,” she explained. “I couldn't just leave her behind.”

Mac was on his feet, helping her off with her coat. Her wheat-color hair was dusted with melting flakes of snow and her cheek felt cold when they kissed. “Like old friends,” she said, smiling.

It was, Mac thought, a charming smile. He didn't remember her looking like this; he remembered a brown-haired lumpy woman in a flowing cranberry caftan who looked as though she'd been left over from the Woodstock era.

“You look wonderful,” he said, sincerely, smiling as he saw her blush.

“That's thanks to Allie and Sunny,” Pru said. “They gave me the Monte Carlo makeover.”

“It worked,” Mac said. Then, “About Sunny . . .”

Pru looked at him, then looked at her watch. There were still almost ten hours to go before she and Allie could break their promise. Maybe Sunny would be back by then. “I can't tell you. Not now. Later, perhaps . . .”

Mac looked at her and she sighed.

“I promised,” she explained.

The dog jumped onto Mac's lap. He called over the waiter, Pru asked for a Cosmo.

“Sunny's drink,” she said. “She taught me.”

“I'll bet she did,” Mac said.

Pru told him she had a room and he got the bellman to take her small travel bag. “You must be hungry?”

“Not yet.” She sat there in her brown sweater and jeans, legs crossed, looking very nervous.

“This is hard to explain,” Pru said. “It's so terrible, I didn't know what to do. But then I told Eddie, we must go to Mac. He's the only one who can help.”

Mac wasn't smiling, just listening, cool, guarded. Pru hoped
she was doing the right thing. What else could she do if she were to save Eddie and his family, and their future?

She took the envelope from her purse and pushed it across the table. “There's a letter in there,” she said. “Blackmail. And some pictures. Let me tell you first that those photos were taken without Eddie's knowledge.”

Mac opened the envelope and took out the note, but before he could read it he heard someone say, “Pru, I couldn't let you do this for me. I have to take care of it myself.”

Eddie Johanssen was standing next to Pru, his hand on her shoulder.

 

 

“Oh, Eddie,” Pru said, beaming at him and shaking her head at the same time.

“It's my responsibility,” Eddie said. He reached out his hand to Mac. “I'm sorry to trouble you with this problem.”

“Problems like this are my job.” Mac shook Johanssen's hand, noting that he was a very good-looking man. Handsome with that shock of hair, the slight tan, the long lean body. Any woman would have been pleased to be with him, including, he thought with a pang of jealousy, Sunny.

“Sit down, Mr. Johanssen,” Mac said, watching him closely. “Would you like a drink?”

“Vodka, same as yours.”

Eddie took the chair next to Pru. Mac thought he looked tired and strained. A man in trouble. And the woman with him was obviously under his spell, eager to help, anxious to prove his innocence in whatever little caper this turned out to be.

The vodka arrived but Johanssen ignored it; he'd picked up the manila envelope and was turning it over and over in his hands, as though he wanted to just throw it away. Throw away all it contained. Evidence of something he did or did not do.

Mac wasn't sure which option was true. Was the man playing
innocent? Recruiting a truly innocent woman to help him; make him look better, her being on his side?

“I know what you're thinking,” Johanssen said. “I can only leave the answer up to you. If you choose to believe me, I will be grateful. If not, I will understand.”

Mac dealt with criminals for a living, he knew all the telltale signs of guilt; knew how the eyes challenged or avoided; keeping their secrets. He understood guilt but right now he did not believe he was looking at it. But then, he had been wrong before. Nobody was perfect.

He said to Eddie, “Allow me to read the blackmail note first.” He scanned it quickly, then put it on the table between them. He took a sip of his vodka. “So, what can you tell me about this?”

“I cannot remember clearly, any of the events. I will tell you all I have managed to salvage from the wreckage of that night.”

Mac knew Eddie was not being dramatic; he was simply stating his position. He noticed that Pru put her hand over his as he talked, and that Eddie did not remove it.

It was an old story. Mac had heard it all before. Drugs. Ecstasy for the uninhibited high; then GHB or Rohypnol for the date rape that left the victim helpless against whatever took place, and with no memory afterward of what had happened, only a dark blank space where time used to be. He held out his hand for the photographs. Pru turned away, unwilling to look, but Eddie's eyes remained fastened on Mac.

Mac shuffled quickly through them, then put them back in the manila envelope. “I know this woman,” he said.

“Kitty Ratte,” Eddie said.

Mac said, “She was so obviously bad news I'm stunned Sunny even talked to her.”

“Sunny told me it was because it was Christmas and she was all alone, and so was Kitty,” Pru explained quickly, anxious to defend her friend. “Sunny was Alone, with a capital
A.
She simply couldn't stand it. She meant being without you, of course.”

Mac knew exactly what she meant.

Eddie said, “Kitty claims it's
she
who is the blackmail target,
she
who's being blackmailed, and it's my fault. I have to pay or she will lose everything, her good name, her reputation.”

“Hah,” Pru said. “That's funny.”

“What's more, it's stupid.” Mac looked at Eddie. “You were duped, my friend. She didn't take you into her bed, did she? Oh no. She arranged you on that particular sofa, facing the video cam. She turned on all the lights, fed you the drug and away she went. No holds barred.”

“Literally,” Pru added, stroking Eddie's nerveless hand. His face was pale under the tan and she understood how much he hated this conversation, how he hated Kitty Ratte, how he hated himself for being involved. “It wasn't your fault,” she whispered.

“Yes, it was. I allowed it to happen. I drank with her at the bar even though I knew what she was.”

“You were lonely,” Pru said.

“It's an old story,” Mac said. “And one we can do something about, but first we need to nail her on the blackmail.”

“I can't allow my family to find out . . .” Eddie was panicking.

“Don't worry, we won't go to the police. At least not yet.” Mac knew exactly what he was going to do.

Eddie put his head in his hands, shoulders stooped. “What a New Year's Eve,” he said hopelessly.

“Don't worry, the New Year begins tomorrow,” Pru said, patting his bent shoulder. “Mac will take care of everything and nobody will ever know.”

“Know
what
?” a voice said.

Mac turned at the sound of canes tapping on the marble floor. Legs in plaster, Ron and Allie swung toward him.

“Couldn't let you celebrate New Year's all alone,” Allie said, laughing, as Mac got up to hug her.

“How did you find me?”

“The Inspector.” Ron slapped him on the back in a bear hug.

“And anyhow, how did you fly that plane with a broken leg?”

“Just for your information, a Cessna is not flown by the legs. It takes hands and brains. And a computer.”

“Right,” Mac said.

“Hello, Pru.” Allie was hugging Pru now, and waiters were hurrying with more chairs.

“Make sure the walking wounded are comfortable,” Mac said to them. “I don't think there'll be much dancing this New Year's Eve.”

Passersby on their way to parties turned to stare. “It's Allie Ray,” they exclaimed. “The movie star . . . Allie Ray. Look how beautiful she still is . . .”

“You'd think I'd been gone decades instead of a mere couple of years,” Allie said, looking like a mischievous teenager.

“You look wonderful tonight.” Ron clasped her hand tightly in his. “You've always looked wonderful, always will.”

She smiled at him. Her pale satin miniskirt came about ten inches above her knees, allowing room for the plaster cast that held her right leg in its grip. “I know, I know, its
very
short,” she said, catching Mac's glance. “Don't worry, I'm wearing something underneath.”

“But
what
?” Pru whispered. “How could you get anything over that plaster cast?”

“Spanx,” Allie whispered back. “You just have to grit your teeth and pull like mad and then
oomph
they just go on.”

“Ooh,
Spanx
.” Pru had learned a lot in a few days.

“By the way, you look gorgeous,” Allie said, amused because Pru still blushed at the compliment.

“Oh, do you know Eddie Johanssen?” Pru said, remembering.

Eddie had pushed his chair off to one side, feeling like the intruder on the friendship. He shook hands and said he would go, and wished them a Happy New Year anyway.

“Sit back down, Eddie,” Mac said. “We haven't finished.”

“Finished what?” Ron's dark eyes were on the alert for the trouble that just seemed to follow Mac around.

“Eddie's having a blackmail problem,” Mac said. “We need to deal with it.”

“I'll bet its Kitty Ratte,” Allie said, arranging the sleeves of her black chiffon top and adjusting it farther off one shoulder.

“Sexy,” Ron whispered, and she giggled.

“How did you know?” Eddie asked.

She shrugged. “All you needed to do was look at that woman. Those tiny eyes are like heat-seeking missiles; a predator on the prowl for matching heat. A victim. Or a loser.”